


Marta

by Skyepilot



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Drinking, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Innuendo, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26667109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: Benoit visits Marta after the trial because he has something to tell her.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	Marta

“ _Marta_.”

He says her name in a sing-song voice this time.

“ _Mar_ ta,” he says it again, trying a different intonation, more emphasis on the “ar” and less on the “ta”.

“Detective Blanc!” she says surprised, swinging open the front door to the mansion.

“Oh, good afternoon to you, Ms. Cabrera,” he replies. “Lovely day, I'd say, now that Spring is upon us.”

“Yes,” she nods, looking at him a bit curiously, as he looks around at the grounds.

“I believe I even saw some azaleas,” he goes on, gesturing in their general direction.

“Yes, my mom loves those.”

He's wondering if this is the best time, even though it seems things have quieted down, after the mention of some of Harlan's trove of oddities at an auction and some of the family stirring up trouble about it in the local press.

The trial and sentencing are over, and _Marta_ , he says the word in his head carefully again, is looking as lovely as ever, in one of her neat floral button-downs.

Perhaps even more so, without a look of worry about her brow. Or perhaps he's only imagining it.

“I think it's been, what, a month?” she asks. “Since the trial?”

“Yes,” that was the last time we saw each other, I do believe-” he pauses. “How impolite of me,” he says, removing and pocketing his sunglasses.

“Except for the phone calls to check-in. I appreciated that,” Martha says, searching his blue eyes now that she can see them.

“Yes,” he says softly, staring back at her, wondering if now might be the moment-

“Would you like to come in?” she asks suddenly, breaking their gaze and gesturing to the open door behind her. “I can make some tea. We could sit out on the back porch?”

“That would be lovely,” he smiles at her and follows her inside.

The house is still grandiose, it can't help but be that. However, far less imposing and homier now. It feels lighter and-

“Do you like it?” she asks him. “I mean, it was a battle with my sister picking colors, and of course we had to have some help with the ceilings and-”

“Who won?” he asks her, picturing Marta in a sweet domestic squabble with her younger sister.

“My mom,” she sighs, crossing her arms. “She was the tiebreaker. And she had seen something she liked on TV, so that was that.”

“It feels much more inviting, and some of the old things remain, I see,” he says tapping his foot against a velvet-covered chair.

“It's still all coming together,” she says to him, twisting her fingers together. “It's funny how well you know this house by now, huh?”

“I had a _very good_ tour guide,” he reminds her, following her now into the kitchen.

“And a murder to solve,” she says back to him, taking the kettle from the stove and going to the sink to fill it. “And all that's behind us now.”

He looks down at the kitchen island and crocheted potholders with the single familiar mug ready nearby. Hopefully, he wasn't interrupting some daily ritual she'd set aside for herself.

She returns with a wooden box with various kinds of tea bags in them.

“Pick one,” she tells him, opening the lid.

“What's your favorite, Marta?” he asks.

“Um,” she starts to answer, distracted, then raises her eyebrows and says directly. “If you're going to call me Marta, then I will have to insist on calling you, Benoit.”

She says his name like the “t” drifted up and away into somewhere heavenly.

“I'm sorry,” she says, laughing nervously, concerned either by his expression or his lack of one while he was thinking. “That's not too-”

“No,” he shakes his head and takes the box of tea from her. “No, it's...just _perfect_.”

He looks down and sees that she is still holding on to the box, that his hands are over hers and the room is so still, you could hear a pin drop.

“Where would you like to take your tea?” he asks her, the words coming out from someplace low in his chest.

“I don't know,” she replies, her eyes fluttering for a moment, indecisive. “This is a big house, there are so many options...”

“Oh my Lord...” he says under his breath, unable to help the images jumping into his mind's eye.

She laughs, but in a delighted way, not mockingly, and puts her hand on his arm. “We should probably stick with our original plan, then.”

The tea kettle starts to whistle, and he takes the box from her and distracts himself looking through the little bags, thinking about what has happened between them, while she assembles the mugs and the tray and he offers to carry it, following her through the home out towards the back.

Holding the door open for him he goes to set it down on the patio table and remains standing.

“This is where we first met,” he says to her, unbuttoning his jacket.

“Yeah, I remember, you scared the life out of me,” she reminds him, sitting down on the outdoor sofa and placing her hands on her knees.

“More truthfully, I had looked into you before that,” he tells her, removing his jacket and setting it on the back of the couch, then starting to roll up his sleeves.

“I would expect nothing less of a gentleman detective,” she tells him. “I had to watch myself around you very carefully.”

“You were very good at it, too,” he says, sitting on the couch with her comfortably close but not too much so. “Perhaps we should've traded roles and you could've been the detective?”

She shakes her head at him. “I don't think you'd be a very good murderer, either.”

“You're right, I wouldn't,” he agrees, chuckling, picking up his mug of tea when she does hers and they drink for a moment together in silence. “Mmm. Black Tea with a little bit of peach?”

“Pretty close,” she tells him, looking him over, up and down in a way that sends a jolt through him. “No suspenders today. Are those only for holding your detective pants up?”

He looks at her droll expression, enjoying this, trying to not get too far ahead of himself to dare to imagine having days like this in a succession, one after the other. Her eyes blink back at him from behind the mug she's drinking from.

“It may shock you, but I do own items of clothing that are not suits,” he replies as she laughs at him. A _teasing_ laugh this time. He is just watching her laugh and entranced.

“But you wore a suit today,” she tells him, bumping her knee against his suit pants, and shaking him out of his reverie. The tiny touch warming his whole body.

“I didn't want to shock you,” he answers, lower again, as she reaches to set her coffee mug down on the table.

“Then why don't you surprise me instead?” she tells him, turning her body to face his, her jeans-clad knee touching his yet again.

He sets his mug down and then reaches with his hand, and gently places it on her knee. “You never asked why I came here today.”

“I think I might have figured it out,” she tells him, lifting her eyes from where his fingers sits on her knee, then raising her hand and brushing a thumb along his jaw, tracing its path with her eyes. The stubble is already growing back, and she leaves her thumb pressed against his chin, looking at his parted lips.

“What took you so long, Benoit?”

“ _Marta._ ”

He leans forward and kisses her, his fingers caressing her knee.


End file.
